Marc Tumerman

My practice is in a small rural Wisconsin town just down the road from a large military base. I see soldiers pretty regularly these days; they stay here for several weeks of pre-deployment training before shipping off to Iraq. They come from all over the country–men and women of various ages, some single, some married and with families. Their health-care needs aren’t too different from those of my civilian patients: maternity care, chronic illness management and the usual scrapes and bruises. I like having them on my schedule; their Boston accents and Georgia drawls make a pleasant change from my neighbors’ familiar, made-for-radio Midwestern monotone.

I don’t dwell much on what these soldiers do for a living. I do my best to take care of their needs and move on to the next patient. Once in a while, though, I run into one who sticks in my head at night as I lie in bed trying to make sense of the day.

Captain America is one of these patients. Sitting on my exam table, this 29-year-old man looks like a cross between G.I. Joe and the Terminator, his well-sculpted V-frame a walking advertisement for the U.S military.